Burning in the House of Marble
by Qismat Qami
Summary: Ichigo, in order to save his brother's life, traps his brother's soul within his own. HichigoIchigo, UraharaIchigo, AU, dark themes, twincest, auto-erotic asphyxiation.
1. Prologue, Chapter 1

**Warnings:** Pre-Slash/Pre-Yaoi, future twincest, angst, dark themes, AU

**Pairings:** Hollow!Ichigo/Ichigo, Urahara/Ichigo

**Chapter Rating:** PG-13

**Disclaimer:** Owned by Kubo Tite, et al.

**Summary:** Ichigo, in order to save his brother's life, traps his brother's soul within his own.

A/N: Be forewarned—this is a peculiar child of a peculiar brain. Whether the reader may find anything worthy of approbation, the author cannot say—except that zie hopes the reader will show enough human respect and dignity to refrain from sacrificing zir upon the alter of the reader's indignation. Thank you most kindly for your time and for, if you may be so inclined, a memento of your visit in the form of a review. The author is, as always, the humble and pitiable servant of your entertainment.

* * *

:Burning in the House of Marble:

* * *

Prologue

_Twist and turn it. Bind and burn it._

* * *

Fists clench. Knuckles blanch. "What did you say?"

A wire-taut tension groans, swells through the wood-paneled corridor until even the air seems to be on the precipice of screaming violence. Existence trembles, frays at the edges, and begins to fold inwards. The odor of burnt ozone permeates the space.

"What did you say?" Fingers slice forward, wrap around a pale throat, and _squeeze_ gently. "Urahara-taichou."

Shards of lightning-flash rage with savage effulgence behind the screen of bottle-brown eyes. Something dark and monstrous moves with liquid grace beneath the caramel-cream of the young man's skin; it peers out of the shadows stretching across his saturnine features and waits with alien hunger.

"They are going to execute your brother."

Harsh press of fingers: five perfect sanguine smudges, five perfect lurid crescent moons. "You said—He's not a hollow anymore. It was supposed to—"

Thin lips trace a rueful grin. "Not a hollow, no, but something worse. He is a demon with Shinigami powers, Kurosaki-kun."

* * *

"Come ta see the creatures in the zoo, little brother?"

He cannot meet the molten glare, cannot face the mocking grin on colorless lips. Beneath his fingertips the pulse of another life still whispers. The pure, unadulterated rage and betrayal a roaring tempest in his brain; his hand about another's throat—so close to crushing it. This is not my hand. I would never… not to another human being…

But he would, he knows this, feels it deep in his gut—a cancerous knowledge.

"They're gonna kill me, ne?" Wild laughter. Black nails score uselessly across the white stone walls. "All yer hard work fer nothin'. All yer sacrifices—nothin'. Can't do anythin' right by yer own self. Stupid, pathetic, precious little brother."

Who are you trying to save, Kurosaki-kun? How can you save anyone when all you know is fear?

Fear of loss, of being alone, of being one half of a whole.

No, fuck that.

"I'm going to," he says on the knife's edge of a whisper, eyes open, matching glare for glare. "I will save you, so shut the hell up."

Cold smile, blue tongue scoring across colorless lips. White fingers dance around the gapping black hole in a sculpted chest. "We'll see."

* * *

A warm touch travels across his sweat-slick brow. The scent of sandalwood and cloves rises to his nostrils. "My, my, you really are something, Kurosaki-kun."

Another painful jerk, cold fingers digging into his lungs, white teeth tearing at his heart.

"Even I never suspected it could be used to do this."

_Let me out. Let me out. Fuckin' stupid—_

Vomit boils up the back of his throat, acrid and putrid. He chokes. Muscles clench violently. He heaves. Pungent black ichor dribbles from the corner of his mouth.

"Such a silly child."

* * *

He never realized that the living world would be so full of… people. Their noise, their stink, their refuse, their bird-fragile lives, all ceaselessly roiling together, spilling across the face of existence, staining everything. Horrible and immeasurably precious.

Cold fingers slide into his brain. Another pair of eyes take in the sights behind his own.

_Weak. Cattle fer the slaughter._

"You didn't always think like that." No, once you gave your all to protect them.

_How would ya know?_ Wicked giggle.

He adjusts his footing atop the chain link fence. A mother and daughter pass by below. The little girl gives him a wide-eyed stare. The woman doesn't see him at all. The wind shifts, carrying the scent of burning garbage from the incinerator up the street.

"You died for them." You left me alone for them.

His brother stretches beneath his skin. Mocking. Always mocking.

_Tch. Ya really are ignorant._

The air here is different, heavier. It smells. Not even the worst areas of Rukongai have this particular permeating stench. Is this life?

There's no going back. One bridge burned to ash, another waiting to be discovered somewhere here in the human world.

What will you do now, Kurosaki-kun?

Live.

* * *

Prologue End

* * *

Chapter One

_Let me steal this moment from you now._

* * *

He awakes to find his own hand slowly strangling him. A moment of disorientation, a burning breathlessness, and he wrests back full control of his body. His brother retreats with a feral laugh, sharp teeth catching in his heart.

_Whenever you let your guard down, little brother._

A slate gray sky arches overhead, clouds pregnant with imminent rain. He stretches out his traitorous right hand, blunt fingers splayed wide, as if to grasp hold of that leaden firmament and tear it down. Then, as muscles tremble and throb with the strain, he allows it to fall limply to his side.

How many years—decades—has it been since he left the Gotei 13 and Soul Society altogether? The human world has changed all around him, always rushing fecklessly towards an unknown and uncertain future. So very different from Soul Society where resistance to change has almost become a religion in and of itself.

Or used to. Maybe it has changed.

He digs his fingers into the tarpaper roofing beneath his supine body. Grit gathers beneath his nails.

He wouldn't know either way; that part of his life has long since been relegated to the past.

Bottle-brown eyes slide closed as the first cold drop strikes his forehead. A deep rumble moves through the heavy air, reverberating in his lungs, and the heavens crack open. Inside his brother howls like an animal.

* * *

Whip of wind through orange hair. Brown leaves scatter.

"You." A reflexive clench of raw-knuckled hands. The sword at his back thrums with blood ecstasy. His brother grins cruelly behind his teeth.

"Maa, is that any way to greet an old friend?"

"Wouldn't say 'friend'." Would never be stupid enough to make that mistake.

The man inclines his head, gray eyes falling into the shadow of his green-white stripped hat. "Colleague, then."

_Fuckin' sadist in a—_

The chilling breeze carries that familiar scent of sandalwood and cloves to him, and he is hit with a pain like he has never known, a hunger that he has never realized lived inside him. Brass needle digging up beneath his ribs. I want to go back. I want to go home.

He turns away—away from that laconic half-smile and those shadowed gray eyes. The playground lies silent and empty in the gloaming, the last child having long since scurried home to dinner. A seesaw creaks sullenly as the autumn wind teases it.

"What do you want"—he cuts the dirty-blond a cold-heat glare—"Urahara-taichou?"

Quick, lilting chuckle, knife-sharp and silkily smooth. Winter eyes flash, catching fire in the fading light. White fan snaps open, closed, slitting the growing night.

His brother stretches clawed fingers into his kidneys. _Cut 'im._ An image follows: hot red smeared across his mouth; thick, wet meat pulping in his hands. _Cut 'im!_

"Just a humble shopkeeper now." Razorblade smirk. "There were some complications."

He sucks in a deep breath, filling his lungs until they ache with fullness, until nausea rises up the back of his throat in a bitter, acrid spurt. He clenches his fists into bone-blanch paleness.

"What do you want?"

"Ah, but isn't it more a matter of what you want, Kurosaki-kun?"

Snap, snap goes the fan.

* * *

"You cannot keep this up much longer. There is a finite amount of time two souls can share one existence."

The aromatic green tea burns across his tongue, down his throat. His stomach gives a slow roll in protest. He hasn't had anything but water for all the decades he's been in the living world: water from runoff, puddles, from fountains, the rain. He doesn't steal, doesn't take what isn't free for taking. He's got enough pride left—enough foolishness left—for that at least. No food, nothing that would allow his spiritual presence to stabilize.

Cold hands slide beneath his weathered cheeks. _Ya don't need anyone else._

Just like living in the ghettoes of Soul Society again, except…

He takes another scalding sip, ignoring the words and scrutiny of his unwelcome host, ignoring the rage and frustration of his brother inside his soul. Sometimes, as each year rolls into dust, he wonders if it really is his brother and not just an acerbic, cruel presence he conjured up to fake his own sanity.

"I don't care."

Something alien and oh-so heavy pushes into his stomach. The wood-paneled walls of the shop—an incongruous throwback to an earlier time amongst monsters of cement and steel—groan and flex with the rising swell of power.

Brother or not brother. Curse or blessing or cancer.

"I don't fucking care."

The smell of burnt ozone rises, overpowering the musk of aged wood and old lacquer. He pins the man beneath his coldly furious gaze, beneath the weight of his fraying consciousness.

You did this to us, if there even is an us. You were supposed to—but that's impossible, isn't it? One doesn't become a Shinigami again after being a hollow, no matter what power you steal from God.

_Cut 'im. Before he—!_

The clear glaze of the tea cup begins to crack and flake, leaving behind the rough green-brown of naked pottery. His hand flexes about the warm vessel in remembrance of locking around a cream-pale throat a lifetime ago. Should have done it then. Squeeze. Ended this all.

"If I could give your brother back his existence"—quirk of a brow—"would you care then?"

Hot tea sloshes over his hand, pinking it. Shards of broken pottery pierce his palm and cut open the meat of his fingers. Around them the dark wood walls sigh with relief as the savage _reiatsu_ folds in upon itself.

With brutal precision black fingernails slash across his lungs, stealing his breath as a cold mouth sucks upon his bird-wing beating heart. _It's too late to be free, little brother._

A warm hand closes over his injured right one and pulls it across the top of the low circular table. Gently, gently the sharp fragments are worked free by dexterous fingers. Crimson droplets splatter the tabletop, but no pain visits him. Lately, it's been difficult to feel physical injuries.

"The degradation has already started." Cool gray eyes in shadow. Fool's mouth in a grave line.

Fools always carry switchblades up their sleeves.

"What do you get out of it?" What's the price this time, puppet master?

"Would you believe altruism? Remorse? No, no, of course not. So suspicious." Coquettish tilt of the head. Molasses slow half-smile. "Or, perhaps, I hate to leave an experiment unfinished? Especially one so… fascinating."

"You're not God."

"Of course not."

* * *

Chapter One End

* * *


	2. Chapters 2 and 3

**Warnings:** Slash/Yaoi, future twincest, angst, dark themes, disturbing content, AU, auto-erotic asphyxiation

**Pairings:** Hollow!Ichigo/Ichigo, Urahara/Ichigo

**Chapter Rating:** PG-16

**Disclaimer:** Owned by Kubo Tite, et al.

**Summary:** Ichigo, in order to save his brother's life, traps his brother's soul within his own.

**Activity Disclaimer:** Erotic asphyxiation should never be done alone. If you are interested in breathplay, the author highly recommends seeking out a trustworthy and experienced master/mistress, preferably one with training in resuscitation, to guide you through the practice (contact your local BDSM clubs for more info, assuming you're of legal age in your area). It is extremely dangerous and sometimes fatal even if done with a professional. Again, never, ever do it alone or with someone who lacks experience and know-how.

**A/N:** The author would kindly like to warn zir readers against expecting updates to occur with such regularity. Due to the fact that zir firm is currently holding a week-long company retreat on Kauai and most of zir fellow employees picked up a nasty stomach bug on the plane flight over, zie has far too much time on zir hands—thus plenty of opportunity to write fics. However, soon the trip will be over and it will be back to the nine-to-five grind; sadly, the fic updates will have to defer to real life.

* * *

:Burning in the House of Marble:

* * *

Chapter Two

_Clever enough to be a crow._

* * *

He falls. A rush of white that is as much sound as color closes over his head. Jarring stop. Molars vibrating in their sockets. Taste of meat and something darker, heavier on the back of his tongue. Cool stone beneath his suddenly bare feet. He opens his eyes.

"Welcome home, little brother." Draped in sanguine chains, naked, colorless arms spread wide in a mockery of a greeting, his brother waits in the center of this marble room.

Chamber upon marmoreal chamber. Each cut open by four archways rudely studded in the walls, leading to more of the infinite same. And each room perfectly bisected by a hair-thin crack.

His inner world has changed since trapping his brother here. His sword no longer speaks.

"That's such a pathetic face ya got there. A little late for guilt, ne?" White, spidery hands lovingly stroke the heart-red chains. Gold eyes cut through him, laugh at him. That cruel mouth stretches, curls up obscenely. Blue tongue leaves a glistening smear across the lower lip.

Old, much-handled arguments build up behind his clenched teeth. They slice across his tongue, clamoring to tumble out of his pursed mouth. They taste like vomit. No. The time for that has past. He never wins, anyways.

Hope is such an excruciating, wretched thing.

"You understand?" Five steps closer, bare feet shuffling across slick marble, but still a finger-width beyond the reach of those black-nailed, restless hands, he sits. So close, but…

Not like back in Sereitei. Or even like in the ghettoes of Rukongai.

"Yer gonna put everthin' in that lunatic's hands again, 'cause it worked so well last time." A colorless hand shoots out and hovers, quivering, in the air a scant distance from gouging out a chunk of his shoulder. Poisonous, hard-candy laughter spills from that slash of a white mouth. The chains slide and shift and settle—silent—exposing skin and covering it up, but never that hole. The hand retreats.

"Think ya can get rid of me? Think I'll let ya?" Soft voice, tender, faintly scolding. His brother raises his hand again, reaches out slowly towards his face. He almost leans into the yearning touch, faded memories slipping across his consciousness. The knife-gleam flash in his brother's gold-black eyes brings him up short.

Sometimes an eye for an eye is literal.

"It's not like that." A child's petulance, a young man's weary voice. The brass needle twists. Another slow turn. I want everything to be like… like _before_.

"Ya owe me, little brother. Ya owe me more than ya can ever pay—with or without that asshole's help." White hands flutter back to the chains, testing, testing, testing, twisting. A few more have fallen off since last time. Noticing the direction of his gaze, his brother picks up one broken length and brings it to his lips. Blue tongue flick. Wink. "Not much longer. Better hope he gets there first."

* * *

"Does this hurt?"

"No."

"This?"

"No."

"Ah, good, good. Now just close your eyes and—"

* * *

Naked. Hairless. Pale. Smooth. Features unstamped. Flesh translucent. Curled up, foetal. Life, unripened.

It's hideous.

The silence in his brain is worse: a gapping, seeping _lack_. He's horribly, terrifyingly alone in his own body for the first time in decades. He presses his palm against the warm glass. Presses harder and harder. The thing floats silently, shifting in unseen currents within the cylinder.

"A watched pot never boils, Kurosaki-kun." A large, warm hand closes about the nape of his neck and urges him to turn from the coffin-sized glass tube and its ghoulish contents: a blank soul suspended in vicious, salmon-pink fluid.

"It's not a pot." It's not my brother, either—yet.

A shudder rolls down his spine.

* * *

"Like this?"

Fingers dig into his throat. Pressing. Pressing. Slow like sun-warmed honey. Calling up a necklace of bruises.

Sandalwood and cloves.

"More."

Harder. Yes. Like that.

His lungs struggle. They burn, membranes threatening to tear in their frantic labor. Hot, acidic spurt of adrenaline. His limbs surge, instincts slowly, systematically shutting down conscious control. Writhing strands of silver and black crawl across his closed eyes.

"More." Ghost of a voice, crackling dead leaves.

Black feathers in behind his closed lids.

Scorching, humid breath in his ear. "You have peculiar hobbies, Kurosaki-kun."

Darkness.

* * *

Chapter Two End

* * *

Chapter Three

_Hold them down and squeeze real soft and let a piece of myself die._

* * *

Up. Down. Up. Down. Feet out. Feet in. How high? How high? This time will you fly?

His hand slips in a ghost-like caress over the rubber-coated chain of the swing. The children are gone again. None of them managed to fly away, though.

Rattle. Rattle. Clink. Clink.

He doesn't sit down. Doesn't plant his feet in the loose taupe sand and push, swinging back, legs tucked under, then forward, legs straight out, straining to get higher and higher and higher, the sky within reach of his out stretched fingertips. Just a little closer. Just a little more—

No, that's for the human kids who swarm over the play structures the moment classes let out. Though not as many now, what with the weather's inexorable march into winter.

A moment of expectant silence. Disappointment. Rough shove of a raw-knuckled hand through unkempt orange locks. Why does he still do that? It's been a few weeks, but he still listens for his brother's biting commentary, waits for the cruel scratch of nails, the sweet cut of white teeth.

He gives the chain a harsh shake—rattle, rattle, clink, clink—and steps back.

A watched pot never boils, Kurosaki-kun.

I know that. I do.

* * *

There are other people living in the shop: a man with a voice like the echoing growl of a far off rockslide; a boy, brash and ill-tempered, voice rising and falling with outrage, ego and reticence; and a girl who speaks in a timorous susurrus. He avoids them at all costs. Or they avoid him, maybe. Out of respect? Out of wariness? Out of fear? He chooses a different answer each day.

Today is fear. It tastes right.

Their voices carry to him from the front of the shop, so he haunts the back, lingering before the locked door hiding his painful hope.

The thing still isn't his brother. Won't be for months yet. Might never be? No. No. No. A muzzy heat gathers in his head. Turn, turn, the brass needle. No. No. No.

He jabs blunt fingers into the collar of bruises angrily circling his throat. Cessation. Thoughts under control. Breathing slow, deliberate. Shake of the head to whip away the last of the fog.

Hand falling back to his side, he straightens his unconsciously hunched shoulders. Only then does he realize that his dick's hard.

* * *

"Does this hurt?"

"Ow, yes!"

"And this?"

"Yes, dammit!"

* * *

"You should allow me to heal these."

He shrugs away the concerned fingers feathering across his throat. Grain by pale grain he picks apart the salmon musubi on the table in front of him, fingers tacky from the rice. One by one he places a grain on his tongue, lets it dissolve in a wash of sour saliva, and swallows. A bit of salt-salmon, another grain of rice. Meals take hours.

A soft huff of amusement. Strong fingers ruffle his hair. "My, my, so stubborn. Well, if you develop any difficulty in speaking or swallowing…"

He grunts lowly and sucks down another piece of rice.

* * *

Chapter Three End

* * *

Afterword: The author would like to take a small moment to unlock the gratitude of zir heart and express zir thanks to those wonderful, exquisitely kind individuals who stopped a moment to leave a comment-- BlEAchMeUp, Trumpet-Geek, KivaEmber, QuikSylver, makemeasammitch and Twilight's Blade. Thank you deeply and humbly for your time. The author knows there is not much to recommend zir story, but hopes that future endeavors will find some small measure of favor in the esteemed regard of zir readers.


	3. Chapter 4

**Warnings:** Slash/Yaoi, future twincest, angst, dark themes, AU, auto-erotic asphyxiation

**Pairings:** Hollow!Ichigo/Ichigo, Urahara/Ichigo

**Chapter Rating:** R

**Disclaimer:** Owned by Kubo Tite, et al.

**Summary:** Ichigo, in order to save his brother's life, traps his brother's soul within his own.

* * *

:Burning in the House of Marble:

* * *

Chapter Four

_Hey, Mister Hangman, I'm jonesing for your hanging rope._

* * *

The wheel of night spins on, taking the town further into darkness. The shoji screen glides away with the smallest of pushes. Sandalwood and cloves, old house mustiness. He steps in.

Butter soft lamp glow. Shadowed stacks of books, magazines, pamphlets, floor to ceiling. Broad shoulders beneath a pea-green wool yukata and striped haori. Scratch-scratch of a nib across paper. Green-brown cup of tea. Loose ribbon of pungent, earthy steam twisting up.

A long-fingered hand waves negligently towards the spread futon; the other continues to scratch-scratch out the accounts, the logs. Dirty-blond head never lifts. Scratch-scratch.

Cold wood beneath his bare feet. Restlessness in his fingertips. Four slow, measured steps. Shuffling steps. Exquisite, anticipatory ache within the mottled chain of color about his throat—lower. Electric sparks drift through ripe veins.

Scratch-scratch.

He sits, digs his fingers into the thick down comforter; he waits, bottle-brown eyes catching every slight shift of the other, pacing without moving a muscle. Buzzing in stillness. A cool current of air drifts across his exposed toes.

Scratch-scratch.

Waits. Waits. Waits. Minutes trickle by, unmarked by instrument.

Silence in his brain. Silence on his tongue. If he falls, the marble rooms will be empty. Not a trace left. Not a chain. Almost like _he_ never was. Just that thing floating in salmon-pink fluid, bathed in the lambent light of the softly chirping machines. Still naked. Still hairless. Translucent flesh no shield for the tender, vulnerable organs and lurid, pulsing veins beneath.

His stomach flips. Bile slithers up his esophagus. He strokes the bruises and takes a calming breath, tucks his legs up against his chest and drops his chin upon his sharp knees. His toes are still cold.

Scratch-scratch. Pause.

Explosive, whistling sigh. Exaggerated stretch. "Ah! Finally finished."

The man tosses him a fool's grin over his shoulder. He doesn't return it—just waits and watches, toes flexing against the floorboards. Every sensation is more intense, more cutting now that he no longer has another to share it with. The experience of physical pain has come back to him; it makes a home in every stubbed toe and bumped elbow, in bruises and cold-ache appendages.

Almost like _before_… except…

The lamp clicks off, room now dark but for the distant glow of streetlights through rice-paper screens. Rustle of cloth. Pop of joints too long locked in one position. Gusty exhalation.

He never wonders what goes on in the other man's head, what he thinks, what he questions, what he believes. Never asks about how he went from Shinigami Captain to merchant in the human world. Complications. Contradictions. Capriciousness. Doesn't matter. Heroes can afford curiosity. He hasn't the currency to pay for it. He's not trying to save the world, just his mean corner of it.

Ya owe me, little brother.

Yeah, I do.

A gentle touch to his shoulder. Sandalwood and cloves, stronger now. Heat of another body against his side.

He unfolds his body and lies down upon the comforter, calf brushing against the knob of the other's ankle. Sparks in his veins converging, rushing dervishes. Heart in his throat, a trapped finch. Beat. Beat. Beat.

A shudder works over and through his body with the first delicate exploration of warm, smooth fingertips across his bobbing Adam's apple. He reaches out and grasps hold of the man's cloth-covered thigh, gives it a demanding squeeze. Anticipation squirms beneath his singing skin. He closes his eyes.

Metallic-salt at the back of his tongue. Already breathless. Already burning.

Steady, steady pressure. Can't help swallowing convulsively against it, pulse rising to the surface. Beat, beat, beat against the flesh-bone bar bearing down. First spurt of lightheadedness. Lungs work-working. Cold sweat in his armpits, the backs of his knees. Face flushing.

He clenches his hand about the other's thigh. Anything to fight the instinctive compulsion to resist, to breathe, to live. The other hand curls in a clawed fist by his side. Anything. Anything.

Steady, steady. Deeper, deeper. Harder, harder.

Seven pounds of pressure will end it all. How close can you go? Dance upon the razor's edge.

Sparkling, mad rush. His body surges, lungs screaming, brain screaming. Everything screaming open the silence. So close, so close to… to…

Instinct swamps him, throwing down his conscious mind, throwing down human reasoning. It struggles. It fights. Twist and turn. Twist and turn. Feet dig into the bedding; hips rise and fall; chest heaves against the hand forcing it down. Twist and turn. Twist and turn. Happening so far away, so far away.

Crawling darkness. Throat a serrated, fiery ache. So close. So close.

He falls.

* * *

"You really are a silly child."

* * *

"What are you doing?" The fingers carding through his hair don't stop. All attempts to evade them have proved fruitless. The winter-eyed man can be annoyingly tenacious.

"An experiment." The man turns another page of his foreign paper, mouth just this side of a laconic smirk.

"With my hair?" Sullen, damage-husky voice, fingers covered in bits of rice and salt-salmon. He tears the leftover sheet of damp seaweed into small squares and glues them to his paper napkin with dabs of spit. He receives a noncommittal hum in answer.

Only a week more, then that thing will be his brother. He pulls off the corners of the napkin and sticks them on the tip of his tongue. Seaweed and cellulose.

His brother, he'll have him back. But which one? No, there's no question—once a hollow, always a hollow. Unless killed with a zanpakutou, but that resets the whole soul. Square one. No memories. Shadow of a personality. Definitely not his brother. Which is why he never could—even though he knew…

Wouldn't be his brother anymore.

His right hand clenches where it rests atop the circular table. Still the indelible memory of fragile skin lurks beneath the pads of his fingers. Should have ended this.

The fingers continue weaving through his hair, nails scratching at his scalp, not quite soothing. He spits out the bits of napkin; they don't taste all that good.

* * *

He awakes, the scent of sandalwood and cloves cloying his sense of smell, a hard shoulder under his cheek. His toes aren't cold. In fact, his whole body is almost too warm. Odd.

A strong, warm hand closes over his eyes before he can open them, presses down his head before he can raise it. "Go back to sleep."

He does.

* * *

Chapter Four End

* * *

**Afterword:** Thank you most deeply and humbly to those far too generous, far too kind individuals who paused a moment to leave their sentiments in the author's poor alms cup: BlEAchMeUp, QuikSylver, seasnake.756, KivaEmber, and Xx.Fma-Dnangel.xX. All of you have been more wonderful than the author has capacity or language to express. Zie desperately hopes zir efforts to be worthy of your esteemed regard.

* * *


End file.
